Typetrigger Hetalia Drabbles
by de-anon
Summary: A collection of stand-alone mini-fics inspired by typetrigger prompts. Rated M as a precaution. More information inside.
1. Monster--Prumano

**As stated in the summary, this is a dump zone for my Hetalia typetrigger prompts (my username is "potatobastard" by the way). It's a website that issues a short prompt every 6 hours which writers must fill in 300 words or less. So, yeah, these will be snippets mostly with a multitude of pairings and scenarios and are intended to stand alone. I will name the chapters with pairings or characters as well as the prompt name. Perhaps you can find something you like!**

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Gilbert did not succumb to the passage of time, the slow seeping of the memory of once great nations from the world til what was once alive was dust on the earth, dry words on decaying pages. He couldn't have. He'd never simply fade away.

But as tears seared down Lovino's eyes, reddened, hardly able to meet their own reflection in the mirror, a raw terror seized his heart.

What if he had?

What if Gilbert was gone? He was prone to disappearing from time to time, off without a word, but he'd always returned, grin wider than ever. What if this time he wasn't coming back. No one could cheat death forever.

"No," Lovino whined. His voice grated harshly in his throat, overwhelmed with sobs. He tightened his fists til they turned white with pressure. His nails dug into his palm.

Closing eyes squeezed fresh tears out. His lips quivered. His body shook.

The last he saw Gilbert, the bags beneath his eyes contrasted a sharp black over paler-than-normal skin that stretched too tightly over gaunt cheekbones. He was not sleeping. Was not eating. Every sound—every rustle of the bushes, every creak of the floorboards—had him jumping, whirling around, constantly checking over his shoulder, red eyes flashing.

He'd begun cutting again. Lovino had found the bloodstains seeped into the cracks in the floor, though the razor hidden. Gil had broken the mirror in the bathroom twice, replaced each time.

But he'd complained about something. Something in the mirror, a slither of a voice and a glimpse of a face—though he only admitted to it somewhere in the throes of nightmares—a monster that taunted him.

Lovino glanced up at the mirror with a sudden shiver. His reflection smirked back, relishing in his terror.


	2. Ruler--Romano and Germany

Lovino is 98% sure that someone took a meter stick and shoved it so far up Ludwig's ass that it forced his back into rigidity.

Which might explain his unwillingness to bend the rules and the strict standards he set for himself. Hair slicked back. Everything in its proper place. No speck of dust or dirt anywhere. Books upright and in rank, alphabetically by author's last name. Organized. Timely. Always 10 minutes early, with neat handwriting perfectly spaced and impossibly small for such large hands. All work before any play.

But Lovino throws his clothes haphazardly as he settled for a nap, leaving his hair purposefully rowdy, curls twisting and tangling around his ears. He hates order. Loves imprecise measurements—eyeing ingredients—as he slops them into the pan. Loves unevenly chopped onions dismembered in a blur. Loves the bubble of sauce and the way it sometimes splatters over the edge of the pot. Loves the dirt tracked in after a day in the garden and the earthy scent that clings to his sweat-soaked forehead.

They do not get along.

But wrong or right, too similar or two different, they are different people.

The two can't really be measured with the same ruler.


	3. Soft Music--Gerita

To Feliciano, Ludwig is the cello. Dependable. Strong. Steady. Always holding back his true potential, keeping to the background though a powerful presence resonates deep within, able to support the whole of an orchestra with his own strength, lending power to the voices of the violins and violas as they weave together. But Feli wishes that Ludwig would stand on his own. Because the cello can transform from a low rumble to the bittersweet lament. Playful melodies to eerie dirges that tinge the air with unease. From soft to powerful and back again, until the notes become as essential as the beating of the heart.

Cellos are more beautiful than they realize. And maybe Ludwig too will discover this.


	4. If you knew--USUK

Four times Arthur checked his email, and four times he found it so cluttered with junk that anything personal was choked out, like a lone flower competing against a cluster of weeds. When he finally found the energy to skim, dull eyes blinking against a lackluster light cast onto sallow skin, he found taunts that were not there. The absence of Alfred's name. The reminder that he'd stopped paying his phone bill because no one called.

"If only you knew," Arthur muttered. "If only you knew I needed you."

Outside the birds made no sound. The rain sloshing against the windows drizzled out halfheartedly, til the bars across the pane became more like tearstains sinking away. Umbrellas pulled closed one by one but the sun did not shine. His cup of tea slowly faded into lukewarm oblivion in his kitchen, a reminder that movement was difficult and that pulling himself from the gaze of his computer screen not worth the effort.


	5. impartial--Prumano

"I don't like tomatoes," Lovino insisted. His words were nearly lost in a tangle of lips and tongues and rough palms that grazed cheeks or fingers that curled into hair. His face was cherry red when he parted for a breath, though he was sucked back in, Gilbert's teeth pulling at his bottom lip.

"And I suppose you don't like me either?" Gilbert murmured. His eyes flashed up to Lovino's. Their noses were inches apart.

He felt Lovino's smile against his mouth, lost somewhere in the throes of another passionate kiss, and the sudden presence of an insistent wall at his back.


	6. Sounds like a plan--Prumano

Lovino can't sleep alone.

It's the fifth time he's tried to turn over, but crumpled sheets won't give way, the hard folds digging into his sides no matter how he twists and turns. Though the window is closed and the heat turned high, it's too cold. There is nowhere for him to burrow safe and warm; no arms to squeeze him tight. No heartbeat to lull him into drowsiness.

So he sits up and wanders in the kitchen to sip expresso. It scalds his tongue but does nothing to uproot the fatigue that's wormed its way deep into his veins, heavy against the monotone of his heart.

With Lovino, there's only dead tired and mostly tired, nothing less. Caffeine might jumpstart him a little, but he always sinks back into an exhausted stupor sooner or later.

He barely finishes the cup, setting it down with trembling hands. His stomach gurgles in protest as eyes fall shut. They open again.

With a gust of cold air, his door mutters-the floor responding with a murmur of its own. Lovino does not look up. Sight and sound had melded into a thick wall that was quickly crumbling.

A hand falls onto his shoulder.

"Oi-I'm in the area so-"

Gilbert, Lovino realizes. He blinks and grunts. His body sways with a fresh wave of exhaustion.

"You...okay?" His grin falls when the Italian slowly sinks into his chest, eyes falling shut a final time. With a quiet exclamation, Gil wraps his arms around him before he slides from his chair.

"O-okay, then," Gilbert says, hooking his arm beneath Lovino's knees and hefting him up. "I think...it's time for you to go to bed. Sound like a plan?"


	7. Underneath--Wingtalia Romano

Someone once told Lovino that underneath his world was another one, only it was a dark place, where the weather changed from bright to tumultuous, hot to cold—where stormclouds cackled wicked taunts as they lashed out with sizzling tongue at the earth below, pelting it with ice and rain.

It seemed impossible.

Because here the ground was soft underfoot and the sky constantly swathed in subtle hues of sunset.

And the idea of angels without wings made his feathers tingle with phantom pain.

"That's where the disgraced angels go," Feliciano once told him. "They have no wings anymore because they're evil and full of hatred."

Sometimes Lovino sat on the edge of a cloud, feet dangling into pure blue sky where the sun could warm bare skin, and wondered what it would be like if he slipped off the edge and plummeted down—the wind tearing through his feathers as the ground rushed up to meet him.

Would it hurt? Would he try in vain to catch himself before he hit?

What good would it do anyway; he couldn't fly. And his heart was already steeped in resentment.

And resentment begets anger which begets evil.

"Am I an outcast if I choose to go?" Lovino wondered, spreading out useless wings.


	8. In bright Colours--America

Alfred doesn't see in black or white or in a spectrum of grey.

He views the world in bright colours—thrown together like paints haphazardly slapped onto a canvas, dripping, blending, mixing, blurring. Half mixed, half apparent, some patches such a conglomerate that the individual shades no longer discernible. Such is the picture of any man's life.

Yellows for vibrancy mixed with impatient greens. Angry blacks slashed across a fearful purple, tinged with a smudge of hope. The joy of pink and the boldness of orange.

The woman with blue-tinted yearning finds the red of passion and the white of courage, only tainted slightly by the poison of grey doubt. The man with electric bright excitement that has long since faded to nothing works to conceal dark blotches with the lightness of grace. The man who lashes out has been fighting the inky stain of bad memories too long. The boy who sits alone is afraid to show off an amalgam of neon sunbursts.

No, people cannot be measured by blacks and whites and greys.

They cannot be compared on any scale.

One man's mistake is another man's dream. One's sorrow another's hope. There is no good and evil, just hopes and dreams and fears and doubts and decisions with no clear cut answer.

And to judge the outcome, one must first know the person.


End file.
